


Loving With the Marrow of My Bones

by Aurelia_Combeferre



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1830s, AU, F/M, what if
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-02-27 05:10:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2680337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurelia_Combeferre/pseuds/Aurelia_Combeferre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras never goes to Paris, but destiny finds him anyway in the form of a caravan passing through his hometown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Roots and Negotiations**

Alexandre Enjolras always remembered his grandfather whenever he heard the ditties every year in the fields during planting season. To be more to the point, he recalled that night when he asked about who wrote the song about never leaving. “Oh it’s as old as the land’s bones, my boy,” the grizzled owner of vineyards had replied. “No one remembers.”

“Did they, do they actually mean it?” the boy had asked.

The older Enjolras had guffawed. “You’ll understand when you get older, child. This land will have more of a hold on you than you realize.” He then crouched to look the golden-haired boy in the eye. “It’s a pull here, deep in your chest. You’ll never be able to escape it.”

So he’d waited for it. He’d wondered if it would come in a thunderclap, in a singular moment of realizing that he’d been meant to be in this town all along. Perhaps it would also come more quietly, like the ebb of the tide at the close of day, inexorably leaving its mark with nary a whisper. Perhaps he would feel it in the weight dragging on his feet the first time someone would ask if he wanted to see the world. Yet no matter how much Alexandre tried, he could not quite keep his mind anchored, or stop his questions whenever the talk turned to tales of Paris, London, or even just other cities in the Mediterranean. ‘ _Keep your focus, boy!’_ his teachers screamed at him each time he was caught looking out the window or even just writing of elsewhere.

It was just as well that they did not know of the other longing, the fire in his blood whenever he became party to suffering. He kept it to himself, growing itchier in his own skin and graver in his heart till his seventeenth summer. He could have sworn that something in him was turning to stone one evening as he was walking home after meeting with the foremen of the farm, one of the many things expected of him as a scion of the most powerful clan in the town. Suddenly he heard a lighter footstep breaking the cadence of his own heavy trudging. He turned around only to be met by a cheeky smirk. ‘Good evening Grantaire,” he greeted his neighbor as cordially as he could manage.

Grantaire grinned in the darkness. “You shouldn’t be walking alone. The caravan is in town.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow at this patois for ‘travelling merchants’.  It was merely polite parlance for some of the most mistrusted strangers in these parts, something that was tossed around carelessly for gypsies, vagabonds, or simply those not given a home in town. “Where are they?”

“Towards the brook,” Grantaire said, gesturing towards the west side of the Enjolras family’s estate. “Not getting in the fence, mind you.”

“Ah I see.”

“I wouldn’t go around alone, as I said. Unless....”

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed. “Do not goad me. If you insist, go find the others.”

“While you are cooped up in the marble palace,” Grantaire said. “You’re falling out of touch with the people, my friend.”

“I rue the day,” Enjolras snapped. He had meant to say that he rued the day that Grantaire had moved to Aix, but before he could finish this statement Grantaire was off, laughing and whooping as he leapt towards the brook. ‘ _He’s going to break his neck, and that will be my problem,’_ he thought as he walked more quickly after his friend.

Even in the growing dark it did not take Enjolras long to find him, or the caravan of which he spoke. The past few years had not been particularly kind to these wanderers, and so the once grand train of wagons had dwindled to half a dozen carts crammed with a hodgepodge of wares ranging from pseudo-antiques to outright grave robbery.

All the same it was still a place to acquire things and make a bargain, and so this little market was crowded. Enjolras nodded politely to the neighbours and acquaintances he saw perusing the makeshift stalls or haggling with the merchants.

“Trinkets! Trinkets for your young lady!” a huge man bellowed, holding up in his chunky hands several necklaces of glass paste.

“Teeth! Two for a price!” a thin shadow of a man called.

“Guns! Pistols of the Grand Army here!”

“How would you like these rare herbs, all the way from India?”

“Gowns! The finest right here!”

“Wine! The best vintage of Spain, going once, going twice---“

On hearing this, Enjolras immediately turned in time to see Grantaire handing over several coins to a fellow who had a hooked nose and a visage almost akin to a hungry rat. “That vintage does not exist,” he snapped, gesturing to the bottle. “What kind of trick is this?”

Grantaire surveyed the bottle, which turned out to be filled with a sort of dark ink poorly masked by a paper label and laughed. “A fine centrepiece then!”

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Enjolras said to the conman. “Swindling of this sort---“

“It isn’t swindling, it’s an honest mistake. I grabbed my display piece; of course I leave my actual wine in a safe place,” the conman wheedled. He snapped his fingers towards the cart behind him. “Eponine! Stop that singing there!”

“I’m practicing for the show tonight!” a raspy though distinctly feminine voice retorted. Yet in a few moments a girl emerged from the cart, shaking out the skirt of her green dress. She pulled a ribbon out of her sleeve and used it to tie back her dark hair before giving the conman a surly look. “What do the gentlemen want?”

“Show them the wine,” the conman said. He wiped his nose with his sleeve before gripping the girl’s arm and shaking her slightly. “Make it quick; you can see they’ve come a long way.”

“And where will you be going?”

“Down to the growers. You mind your business, girl!”

The young woman named Eponine deftly pried her arm loose and nodded. Nevertheless she rolled her eyes as she watched the conman stalk off. As soon as he was gone, she gestured with her thumb to the back of the cart. “Right this way, lads.”

“My apologies if I caused you or your father any trouble,” Enjolras said, seeing the livid marks now forming on the waif’s arm.

“He’s not my father,” she said with a shrug. “Only a friend.”

“You do have actual wine, don’t you?” Grantaire asked.

Eponine looked about and bit her lip. “You’re a fine sort aren’t you? I s’pose I shouldn’t stiff you.”

“Mademoiselle, you need not trouble yourself,” Enjolras said, even as he gave Granaire a vehement side glance. The last thing he wanted was for this woman to be involved n impending mischief; it was clear that she had already enough on her hands to begin with. “We’ll find our purchases elsewhere.”

“Nothing as good as this!” she exclaimed before disappearing into the cart. She emerged after a few moments holding up a still corked bottle with a gold label. “We finished another one of these just yesterday. I am sure that this one is also as fine,” she said in a throaty whisper as she pushed the bottle into Enjolras’ hands.

He would have dropped the bottle in shock but he remembered his manners and kept his grip on it. “Are you sure?”

“It’s worth what your friend just paid for,” Eponine replied. Her brown eyes were mirthful as she looked him over. “You’re a smart one. I like you Monsieur---“

“Enjolras,” he said. “Just call me Enjolras.” Since when did his lips know how to form those words?

Eponine mouthed his name silently. “You’re from here?”

“Always has been, has never known anything else,” Grantaire chimed in. “The name is Grantaire too by the way.”

Eponine nodded. “I like that too. I would have thought swells like you would have done the grand tour.”

“Eventually. Later this year in fact,” Enjolras said. His parents had promised him as much, but there was already that unspoken oath to return, to see those places once and never dream of them in fact. “Where do you come from?”

“Nowhere and everywhere. I wouldn’t remember,” Eponine said. She looked about and pushed Enjolras and Grantaire away. “Go before he comes back, or it will be hell to pay!”

Grantaire bowed to Eponine. “Thank you for your assistance, Mademoiselle,” he said before grabbing Enjolras’ arm to drag him away from the place. “Well she’s a saucy one!”

“You were the one who insisted on the wine,” Enjolras scowled, shoving the bottle at Grantaire.

“I didn’t see you stop her either,” Grantaire guffawed. “You’d better come and see her again before the caravan goes.”

“Perhaps,” Enjolras said, feeling for the first time the lightness in his feet and the sudden pull away from the earth.

 


	2. Fallow

**II: Fallow**

In Enjolras’ mind, Aix had always been a town of cracked facades and masonry. The cathedral was perhaps half as old as the land itself, more so the people’s ways. ‘ _Living relics perhaps,’_ he thought the next day as he stood by while his father issued orders to the foremen of the estate. There was much to be done: the vineyard’s press was in need of a good cleaning, repairs on the storehouses were still unfinished, and of course there were accounts that wouldn’t add up---perhaps because of underhanded tenants or slips in writing down the numbers. All the same this could not block out his father’s imperious words, the knowing glances of his overseers, and of course the sullen silence of the hired hands and tenants quietly taking in every edict.

His father had clapped him on the shoulder after dismissing the group. “Someday they’ll look to you. You’d best make this fact known as early as now,” he said jovially.

“As if they are serfs looking to an emperor?” Enjolras had asked dryly.

The older man narrowed his eyes. “Do not give them ideas, Alexandre. This land has been with our family before your great-great-grandfather was born, and I will not allow it to fall in unworthy hands.”

Enjolras had gritted his teeth as he watched his father walk off; who was he after all to set aside filial duty? He went to the vineyard and stationed himself near the grape press to look over the work there. As he found a bench near the grape press’ entrance, he caught sight of a dark haired figure haggling with one of the more poorly clad masons. He waited for the mason to hand over a few coins in exchange for the bottle in the woman’s hands before he got to his feet. The young woman turned to look at him but she merely raised an eyebrow, and then began walking away quickly.

“Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle Eponine!” he called as he hurried after her.

She stopped before he could reach her, and made an awkward curtsy. “Monsieur Enjolras.”

He was stunned by this unusual formality. “Please don’t. I’m not a prince or nobleman.”

“I know who you are though,” she said as she straightened up. “Monsieur Alexandre Enjolras, only son of Louis Enjolras who is _only_ the richest landowner in these parts. You’re quite the odd swell, I s’pose, but you should not be talking to a girl like me.”

“Who says such a thing?”

“Does anyone need to say a thing for it to be true?”

Enjolras stared at her incredulously. “Have I offended you, Mademoiselle?”

Eponine’s cheeks reddened slightly.  “Not you especially.  I don’t see what your sort would have to do with mine.”

“Well...” Enjolras looked around, remembering now that there were some tools that needed repair inside the shed. “Does any of your companions know how to repair a grape press?”

“What do you think we are, tinkerers?” Eponine asked as she put one hand on her hip.

“You seem to know a lot more than most,” Enjolras said. “I’ll send one of the men down to ask. Who should he look for?”

Eponine paused for a moment. “Montparnasse. He’s the man you want.”  

“I see. Thank you Mademoiselle,” Enjolras said, making a slight bow to her.

“Alexandre!” a voice shouted merrily from outside the grape press. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

Enjolras sighed deeply as he caught sight of Grantaire and several other neighbours. Before he could say anything, he saw Eponine make a bow. “Mademoiselle---“

“You should go to them. I’ll make sure about Montparnasse,” she said quickly before rushing off.

For a moment Enjolras was left dumbfounded despite the laughter of Grantaire and his companions. “Of all the sorts to dally with,” one of the other young men said with distaste. “What would your mother say to that?”

“I’m not dallying with her. I only sent her on an errand, “Enjolras said stiffly.

Grantaire burst out laughing. “That is always how it begins.”

Enjolras chose not to dignify this response, but even so his gaze wandered for a moment to the vivid green of Eponine’s dress as the girl raced away through the vineyard.

 


	3. The Watered Earth

**III: The Watered Earth**

Enjolras only met Montparnasse in the afternoon when the latter was already finished the repairs to the grape press. The vineyard owner’s son saw right away how the hands whispered among themselves at the sight of this traveller, so he lost no time in clasping the younger man’s shoulder before handing him a single _louis d’or_. “For good work,” Enjolras said simply.

Montparnasse’s lip curled into a pout as he surveyed the coin and pocketed it quickly, then bowed slowly. “What about for the young lady?”

Enjolras nodded before handing over ten francs, even if he already had an idea as to how Eponine might regard this remuneration. “Do not tell her that it is from me.”

“You are generous,” Montparnasse said before making another bow. He adjusted his hat before striding down the path and making a left towards the woods, where the caravan was still encamped.

A foreman spat into the dirt on the path Montparnasse just left. “Who allowed him to come here?”

 “He was here on my authority,” Enjolras said, looking straight at the foreman and the other workers who’d been watching this scene avidly. “Back to your work, men,” he added more firmly before quitting the fields and heading back to the house.

He breathed deeply and caught the nip of water in the air, a sign of impending rain. Instead of circling towards the front doors and the house’s opulently polished entrance hall, he made his way to the large potager that led to the kitchen doorway. As he walked up the rocky path that meandered through this garden he heard a rustling from somewhere in the rows of thyme. When he looked around he saw Grantaire seated on a wobbly wooden stool with a large piece of paper balanced on his lap. His fingers were smudged with charcoal and in fact a few dark specks had strayed onto his waistcoat and his cravat. On closer inspection Enjolras realized that his neighbor was sketching a woman clad in flowing robes, her face turned towards the rising moon.

Grantaire looked up from his work and grinned proudly. “I caught her in the right attitude. Too bad that Selene herself makes a poor lamp for this rendition.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes at this mythological allusion. “Does she know you’re making this picture?”

“She sat for it,” Grantaire said as he continued shading in the night sky with bold strokes. “She’s no queen, but something more of a princess among them. Did you know that they aren’t Gypsies?”    

“I could discern that.”

“The man you called for, Montparnasse, is some sort of Parisian. As for her, no one is sure.”

“Does it matter after they’ve been travelling for so long?” Enjolras asked. All the same he had to admit that Grantaire’s observations were rather astute.  There was a certain air to Montparnasse’s manner that spoke of smoke on cobblestone and the rustling of petticoats. ‘ _Eponine is truly the night in motion,’_ he caught himself thinking.

At that very moment he saw the young woman walking briskly up the winding path beyond the potager, clutching a bundle in one hand. She stopped as she neared the garden, as if coming to a decision, and then walked right up to the fence. “Is Monsieur Grantaire finished with his work?” Eponine asked.

“The form, not the frame,” Grantaire replied, indicating the unfinished background.

Eponine nodded approvingly before turning to look at Enjolras. “I just saw Montparnasse. Monsieur, I thank you, but you did not have to,” she said.

The blond raised an eyebrow. “He told you?”

“No, but who else would part with his money so easily?” she laughed. She suddenly looked down and frowned at a drop of water that suddenly landed on her hand. “Oh, the rain!”

“We have to go inside. You won’t be able to make it back to the woods in time,” Enjolras said, gesturing to the kitchen. It went without saying that he would have to offer shelter to Grantaire, and he was not about to do this without extending the same kindness to Eponine as well.

Eponine bit her lip until she caught another raindrop in her hand. “Monsieur must always have his way,” she said more teasingly as she hurried to the still open gate of the potager.

Enjolras could not help but smile even though he could already see raindrops leaving marks on his coat. Fortunately it was only a short run from the thyme patch to the kitchen door, where they were able to make their way into the house unnoticed.  “Would you want anything to eat?” Enjolras asked as he looked around the cupboards.

Eponine shook her head. “The bread here looks too fine for my teeth.”

“Too fine?”

“Have you ever had bread made from grass?”

Grantaire laughed as he motioned for Eponine to take a seat. “I’d take some of the bread here if I were you. Better to grind one’s teeth than to go hungry.”

“I s’pose,” Eponine said as she now sat more primly near the stove. Her eyes went wide as she looked around the kitchen. “I think five or more of our wagons can fit in this room. Is the rest of the house all like this?”

“Somewhat,” Enjolras replied as he found half a loaf of bread to share. The abundance of space had always been slightly uncomfortable for him; it was far too easy to get one’s voice swallowed up in the gloom. “Once, more people lived here.”

“Oh. And now?” Eponine asked. “I don’t know what anyone would do with so much air.”

“Someday, there will be a better use for this house,” Enjolras said.

Eponine smirked knowingly. “Yes, for all your grand dances and parties, for a wife and many children of your own?”

Enjolras took a deep breath before looking at her; his answer to this was not something he divulged to just anyone but he wanted to set the matter straight between them. “A school or perhaps a hospital.”

Eponine’s eyes widened. “Could you really do that?”

“Perhaps.” He was not sure if it was hope or plain scepticism in her tone, but he certainly preferred it to open scorn. ‘ _Something that Aix has never seen before,’_ he caught himself thinking. He waited for Grantaire to move some distance away where he could continue working on his unfinished picture before turning to look at Eponine again. “Where else have you been, before this town?”

“By the sea---some town called Calais. Then there was a time in Toulouse, and in some place called Avignon,” Eponine replied, pushing her hair back from her face. “They are so far apart and there’s everything in between. I don’t have time to remember all of it.”

Enjolras looked down, if only to hide any hint that her words had stirred once again that tugging in his veins. “Have you ever been away from France?”

She laughed mirthlessly. “No. What could we possibly do there?” Only then she looked around and moved her seat closer to his. “Have you?”

He shook his head. “There is too much to do here.”

“I thought a swell like you would have been to all the grand cities,” she laughed.

“I haven’t even been to Paris. Have you?”

Eponine bit her lip and looked out the window. “Why would you want to go to such a horrid place?”

Before Enjolras could answer he heard footsteps running up to the kitchen. He got to his feet and opened the door leading to the potager. “Something the matter?” he asked the farmhand who was taking off his sodden hat.

The worker paused to catch his breath. “Monsieur Alexandre, there’s a body.”

“A what?”

“Down by the grape press. Your father wants you there, now.”


	4. Whispers on the Wind

**IV: Whispers on the Wind**

The air was thick with that sweet yet musty scent of the rain meeting the earth, but as Enjolras ran through the vineyard he could already catch the more acrid, metallic odor of blood. He could hear Grantaire’s heavy footsteps as well as Eponine’s lighter tread just behind him, only for these sounds to suddenly cease as he came in sight of the men gathered around the shed of the grape press. He knew better than to call to them, more so when a murmur came from the growing crowd.

In the half-light from the torches near the shed he could see a body stretched out pitilessly on the mud. The visage was not entirely unknown to him; he had seen this unfortunate before in the fields but as one tanned face among many others who moved among the grapes. The dead man’s hands were still balled into fists---whether to strike a last blow or to cling to breath, Enjolras could not tell. Yet when he stepped closer he saw two small dies on the ground. He picked up one of the dies and found it to be heavy in his hand. “Who did this?” he asked.

“The man you asked to come over here.” His father’s gaze was ice, stilling any words that might have risen around them. “The one you paid to fix the grape press.”

“Had a knife out for loaded dice,” a furious voice, that of the foreman said. “Should have shot him where he stood when he came skulking back in here for a game.”

Enjolras stared this man down; he had never liked this particular foreman, and tonight the sight of him combined with his caustic actions earlier in the day now grated at him. “I did not know this.”

Suddenly a yell came from the shadows. All eyes turned towards where a man in torn and dishevelled clothes was being dragged towards the torchlight by four burlier farmhands. “You have no proof I did it,” Montparnasse snarled as he tried to kick against his captors. “Nothing!”

“Everyone saw you,” the foreman sneered. He gestured to Enjolras. “He knows you.”

 It was only then that Enjolras met Montparnasse’s eyes, just in time to see the defiant light there slip for a moment into a hollow sort of pleading. ‘ _He knows what they will do to him,’_ Enjolras realized. He took one step towards Montparnasse, making a show of regarding him. “Bring him to the police in town,” he said.  

His father levelled a disgruntled look at him. “Alexandre---“

“Not here, Father,” Enjolras said. “We cannot have two murders here.”

The older man nodded after a moment. “Lock him in the shed,” he told Montparnasse’s captors. “And call the constable now,” he added, looking to the foreman.

The foreman nodded quickly. “The encampment?”

“What about it?”

“Shouldn’t we evict them now?”

The landowner paused for a moment. “Round them up. The police will have them too.”

Enjolras looked away at these words, towards where a form had been moving in the shadows and now stood ramrod still, waiting for the crowd to disperse. ‘ _It’s only to buy time,’_ he thought as he walked briskly towards where Eponine was now shaking with rage. “I had to do it,” he said.

“I thought you were honest,” she hissed. “So is this how you repay us?”

“I made sure he would not die,” Enjolras retorted. “No one there would have shown him mercy, Mademoiselle.”

She spat at him. “You mock me!”

“That was not my intention,” he said harshly. He knew that she was red in the face from fury and that her hands were already readying to strike. “You should run back to your camp, warn the others---“

“They will know what to do,” Eponine said, turning on her heel. “Leave me alone, Monsieur.”

“Where are you going?” Enjolras called after her. He saw her stop in her tracks for a moment but he could not hear what reply she might have made over the rising wind. He gritted his teeth and looked around, making sure that no one would notice as he followed her into the dark.  


	5. Kindling

Enjolras never knew how he was certain that he was still racing after Eponine, that it was her light tread that led him past the darkened sheds, all the way to the fields. “What are you going to do?” he asked as he finally caught up to her. 

"Leave me alone!" she hissed. "Go back to your father, or find some other woman to bother!" 

He managed to grab her arm and then her hand before she could slap him. “Listen to me. They will kill you if they find you there.” 

Even in the dark it was evident that her eyes had widened. “What is it to you, Monsieur?” 

"As I said, I don’t want there to be another murder tonight," Enjolras said slowly. "Go back to your camp, I’ll take care of your friend." 

"I’m the one who knows what he’ll need," she reminded him bitterly. "What do you know?" 

The challenge in her voice was the final straw, enough to have him clenching his fist as he hurried after her. He knew her steps were leading towards the woodshed, the most deserted one on the property. ‘ _the one were things are hidden,’_ he realized with growing trepidation. He looked down and saw footprints larger than his own, alongside scuff marks from someone being dragged.

When he looked up he saw  that Eponine was now running, clearly heedless of any danger of slipping in the mud. He saw that the shed they were headed to was now aglow with the flickering light from a single lantern. He reached her just as she came to a stop a few paces from the shed’s main door. “Is there another way?” she breathed. 

"Out back, where they bring in the hay," he said. Before he could explain any further he already heard her footsteps going towards the door he had pointed out. He shook his head and slipped into the shed, taking care to stay in the shadows and away from the voices now muttering in the gloom. 

As Enjolras climbed up a ladder into the hayloft he heard a muffled cry followed by the sound of a fist meeting flesh. He could feel splinters driving into his palms, but the sharp pain surely was nothing compared to what Montparnasse was enduring somewhere. He had to grit his teeth at the sight of the poor young traveler tied to a post, his mouth stuffed with a filthy rag as he looked up dazedly at the farmhands readying to pummel him once more. 

He searched the floor of the hayloft for any tools to help him, but found only two stones among the hay and moldering dirt. ‘ _They should do,’_ he decided as he crouched near the edge of the hayloft. He pelted one stone into the shadows, such that it landed near the front doorway. 

"Who was that?" one of the older hands mumbled. 

"Probably nothing, or someone just walking by drunk," the leader of this gang said. He clucked his tongue as he looked at Montparnasse. "Unless of course this is some trick of you vagabonds." 

Montparnasse gave him a defiant look and reared his head back, as if he could spit through the rag. The hands laughed and before one of them could strike again, a footstep came from the back doorway. “He’s not alone, you know,” Eponine said from someplace unseen. 

"Who’s this now?" the leader of the hands demanded as he grabbed Montparnasse by the collar of his torn shirt. "You had to get your trollop to come for you?" 

Enjolras now tossed the second stone such that it bounced off a nearby wall. This time some of the farmhands ran to investigate, giving him ample opportunity to slip down from the hayloft. Yet it was at that moment he heard a terrifying crash, followed by the crackling of hay catching fire. “You fool! The lantern!” someone cried. 

"Everyone out! Everyone out!" the leader of the hands shouted. "This barn is going to go up in flames!" 

It was Enjolras’ chance now to run towards Eponine, who had caught a nearly unconscious Montparnasse and was now trying to untie him from the post. He pulled out his pen knife and cut the other man’s bonds in an instant. “This way!” he hissed as he helped her lift Montparnasse and drag him towards the door. He could feel his throat burning from the smoke and heat in the shed, but he willed himself not to gasp or even cough till they were out in the chilly night air. 

"Alexandre!" he heard Grantaire shout. He saw his friend waving to him from up the path. "They’re looking for you!" 

"Tell them—-" Enjolras shouted. 

"No telling! Just go!" 

This time it was Eponine who seized his wrist. “My turn,” she whispered before pulling him down the rockier trail to the woods that still hid the caravan. 


	6. The Grit of the Road

_'How brilliant. Not only did you get Montparnasse all wobbly but now you've brought a useless brat with you.'_

‘ _He’s no brat. He saved our lives.’_

The argument rang in Enjolras’ ears long after the night and the dust of Aix-en-Provence had fallen far behind the caravan. The heat of the day had now forced him to seek refuge in the furthest corner of the smallest wagon, and to get rid of his coat and cravat for good measure. ‘ _Just as well, where no one goes,’_ he told himself as he looked towards the road stretching out behind him. 

He had left Aix before, only to visit relatives in smaller towns, but he had never been too far away, or without any of his kin at hand. Now he could not help feeling a little adrift, yet at the same time as if a fog had lifted from his eyes. The horizon now seemed more vast than ever, or perhaps it was because of how the skyline now remained unbroken by church spires and manor houses. 

Suddenly the wagon lurched to a stop but before Enjolras could even lean out to see what the cause of this was he caught sight of a slender form walking up to the cart. “Stay inside,” Eponine ordered, shoving him for emphasis before she climbed inside. The clear light of midday showed not only her pallor from a sleepless night, but also a fresh bruise around her right eye. “Babet doesn’t want to see any hair or scrap of you, at least not for another day.” 

Enjolras merely nodded, having already gathered that this Babet was the same hook-nosed man he had seen on his first encounter with the caravan. “Did he—-” he began, indicating his eye. 

"It’s no different from what I saw your father and the foremen do to some of the hands," Eponine retorted. "No need to be a gentleman, not to me." 

Enjolras gritted his teeth as the image of his father at the head of the mob now surfaced in his mind. “How is Montparnasse?” he finally asked. 

"Knocked about but nothing broken," Eponine said. She slapped him hard across the face. "That is from me, for what happened to him." 

He winced at the sting, sure that it would leave a mark. “That was quite uncalled for, Mademoiselle!” 

She gave him a haughty glance before bringing a flask out from the folds of her skirt. “This is from him, as a thank you gift,” she said more softly as she pressed this into his hands. She paused as she ran her fingers over his smooth palms. “What are you going to do, Monsieur Enjolras?” 

"I am not returning to Aix," he replied. "I must also insist you call me Alexandre." 

"It does not suit you," she said. She frowned as she perused his clean fingernails. "How are you going to make yourself useful?" 

He bristled at her tone. “I am not a weakling.”

"Tell the others so," she retorted before leaping out of the cart.

Enjolras sighed, wondering how he could best manage this feat without words. 


End file.
